Mind of Glass
by Mizu Iruka
Summary: AU S2. Beginning with the car crash. "'New plan.' Yellow-eyes turned towards Sam...'you're going to forget everything.'" A twist on the overused amnesia concept.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I know what you're thinking. C'mon, another amnesia!Sam story? Laaame. But really, I just couldn't help myself. And I can say that I have never seen the amnesia used in this way, so hopefully there's a little novelty left. This was supposed to be a oneshot, but I got carried away. Everything's a little condensed because of that, but it sort of worked out. I think. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Sam blinked blood out of his eyes, the hand that was holding the Colt shaking a little. The demon from the semi paused, seeming to weigh chances. It glanced at Dean and John, both unconscious, before refocusing on Sam. Sam used all of his remaining strength to lift the gun slightly and point it at the demon's head.

"Get lost," he slurred. The demon gave a calculating look before walking away. Sam was somewhat startled. He had expected either a fight or a typical demon escape by leaving the host.

Sam coughed roughly. "Dean," he rasped. "Dad." He got no response. Shakily, Sam put down the Colt next to his dad, ignoring it when it slid to the floor before attempting to pull out his cell phone. No signal. Groaning aloud, Sam pried himself free of the car, ignoring the throbbing pain in his whole body. Sam lifted the phone a little higher. Bingo. Signal. He was swaying where he stood, but he managed to dial 911.

"911 state your emergency."

Sam sucked in a pained breath and tried to remain cognizant. "Car . . . car crash. Need an ambulance."

"Sir, can you tell me where you are?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but a sound from his left had him turning, disbelieving, to find the yellow-eyed demon grinning at him. It hadn't taken him long to find another body.

"Sammy. You and I need to take a little trip."

He didn't have the Colt in his hands, his family was out of the game, and all Sam could do was toss the phone into the car and hope the 911 operator traced the call.

"Can't you just leave . . . us alone?" Sam managed to get out.

The smirk grew, if that was possible. "Sammy, I'm hurt."

"It's Sam," he growled, sounding slightly intimidating, but then he had to put a hand on the wrecked Impala to keep from falling over.

"Let's go, Sam," Yellow-eyes said.

Sam's eyes widened, and then he found himself flat on his back, staring up at the open sky. He sat up with a groan.

"You've been a little too troublesome, Sam Winchester." The demon was a slight distance from Sam.

Sam swallowed the fear, keeping it confined to the queasiness of his stomach, though maybe that was demon-travel side-effects. "So sorry for that," he grunted.

"And that pesky attachment to family. I figured I could use it, but really it's only making things more difficult. Your lovely brother and father are just getting in the way."

Sam couldn't help but grin slightly, though he knew the attempt was pathetic. "They're known for that."

"So. New plan." Yellow-eyes turned towards Sam, and he swallowed. He scrambled for his feet, forcing himself to stay upright.

"What's that?" he asked warily. He was defenseless, and probably about to die. Sam just wished he knew that Dean and his dad were okay before the demon killed him.

"You're going to forget everything. Except for how to hunt. When things are starting, then you'll be ready." The demon held out a roll of money.

Sam shuddered. "When you say forget . . ."

Yellow-eyes had a cruel smile. "Happy hunting."

* * *

The first time Dean woke, it was to a vague drowsiness, an annoying beeping, and something in his throat. He almost started fighting whatever it was in his throat, but then he began drifting. Hospital, he realized, just before floating away again.

The second time, Dean reacted enough so that someone took the tube out. He was still too drugged to recognize anything, or even focus on why he was in there. All he knew was that someone was putting a hand on his forehead and telling him to sleep, and so he did.

He finally was lucid enough to look around the third time he woke up. Hospital. A small, white room. And all alone. Dean reached around in his very hazy memory and suddenly felt like panicking. The demon. His dad, possessed. Sammy . . . Dean tried to call out, but his throat felt like it was filled with sand, and all it did was make him curl up in a coughing fit.

"Easy, son. Just take it easy."

Dean relaxed marginally, his coughing easing slightly. "Dad?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm right here."

He was offered water, and Dean greedily sipped at it before it was taken away. "Sammy?" he managed. The response took too long to come, and Dean worked to focus on his dad's face. "'S'okay?"

"Sam's fine. You just need to recover, all right?"

There was something wrong, but there was something in him, slowing everything down. Dean found himself drifting back into unconsciousness before he could ask where Sam was.

When everything was clear enough, Dean made himself sit up. The hurt told Dean that he probably had a couple cracked or maybe broken ribs, possibly had surgery for internal injuries.

Was it sad that he could diagnose himself so well? Dean ran a sloppy hand over his face, to find that it hurt as well.

"Dean? Hey, lie down. What are you doing?" His dad hurried over, pressing down on Dean's shoulders. Dean didn't fight him.

"Hey, Dad. How long have I been out?"

He grimaced. "Too long."

Dean mimicked his expression at that. "Great. What happened? I'm a little fuzzy on the details."

His dad tossed him a half-hearted grin. "You and me both, son. They told me it was a car crash. T-boned by a semi. I woke up here."

Dean licked his dry lips, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Sam?"

His worse fears were confirmed when his father's face fell. "I don't know. He's missing."

Dean shot up, only to cry out and sag back against the bed. "Dad . . . Sammy."

"We'll find him, Dean. I promise. As soon as you're on your feet."

Dean fought through the pain, trying to stay awake. "But . . ."

"We'll get through this, okay?"

* * *

His head was pounding. He sat up, raising a shaking hand to his forehead. He half-expected it to fall into pieces when he touched it, but it didn't. Okay. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He . . . he didn't know his name. He fought for calm. Probably just had a concussion.

Though if he had a concussion, he should be in a hospital. Trees were not a hospital.

Forest. His thoughts immediately turned to the monsters that could be lurking. Wendigos could be . . . Wait. He returned to that thought uneasily. Monsters. Ghosts. Werewolves. Carefully sifting through the information in his brain, he had the terrifying thought that he could be insane. Insane and with amnesia. Perfect. But when he chanced a glance at the trees again, he knew that it wasn't just in his head.

He suddenly realized he might have an ID. Rifling through his many pockets, he found a knife (silver, his brain told him, it would kill a whole lot of creatures), spare ammo, a lockpick, and a thick roll of money, but no ID. Maybe he was a thief, he thought briefly, but then dismissed that as soon as it came.

_ "Happy hunting."_

He was a hunter. That much he knew. He didn't know who he was, but at least he knew what he was.

He groaned, the pain in his head and the rest of his body throbbing. After sitting up, he realized that he wasn't actually in a forest, just a copse of trees, beyond which was . . . civilization, of a sort. Looked like a small town. It was morning. He fingered the money in his pocket. At the very least, he could get something to eat.

He got some weird looks as he limped down the street, and ducked inside a diner's bathroom. Oh. There was blood all over his face. He was unrecognizable. He splashed water over his face, wiping it roughly with a bunch of paper towels. Looking in the mirror again, he realized dully that he was still unrecognizable.

He ducked his head, gripping the edges of the sink, knuckles whitening. What had happened? Why couldn't he remember anything? Why was he alone?

The sheer amount of questions was overwhelming. He forced himself to take several deep breaths before hobbling out and taking a seat.

Well, he could read English. That was good.

He needed a name. His mind cast around for a good one. John Smith was too generic, too obvious.

"You ready to order, honey?"

He offered her a bland smile. "Could I get a coffee and the breakfast platter?"

"Sure thing."

"I'm sorry, but I got in late last night. Where am I?"

Her gaze was condescending, but he ignored it. "You're in Sioux Falls."

Right. The name meant nothing to him. But he thought it was in South Dakota.

And he still needed a name for himself. He blew out a frustrated breath. An old man sitting nearby reading a Bible caught his eye. Somehow he wasn't surprised that he felt pretty comfortable with it, and could even bring some verses to mind. Matthew. Maybe he would go by Matt. That was a decent name. And he would stick with the Smith for his last name.

So. He had a name now. Matt Smith. He said it aloud, getting another strange look from the waitress, who was pouring him his coffee.

Matt sipped absently at the coffee. Amnesia wasn't something he was an expert on, but he was pretty sure that his wasn't from any normal means. Otherwise he would have some sign of trauma on his head, and there was nothing, aside from the blood. And plus, small town in the middle of nowhere, waking up bloody? That screamed hunt. The supernatural tended to go for the small populations.

So. There could be a hunt here. Research, then. Matt ran a hand through his hair, finding it irritatingly over-long. First things first. Haircut, shower, and then research.

* * *

Dean was on edge. His dad kept admonishing him, telling him to take it easy or he wouldn't heal, but Sammy was missing.

On the one hand, it meant he could still be alive. But on the other . . . Needless to say, Dean was a bit past freaking out.

He slowly eased himself into a standing position, his dad looking on. Dean glared at him, daring him to offer help, but his dad wisely stayed out of the way. Dean took hesitant steps, and then looked at his dad.

"Okay. I'm good. Let's go find Sam."

His father's expression was unreadable. "The car's been towed to Bobby Singer's."

Dean gave a hollow laugh. "Sure he won't shoot you?"

John Winchester, ever emotionless, shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Dean didn't know how to respond to that, and focused on getting dressed.

The bus ride was silent. Dean lost in his own worry, John . . . well, Dean never really knew what was going on in his dad's head, as much as he tried to be like the guy.

Dean didn't expect the compassion he saw in Bobby's eyes. The older man eyed his dad a bit askance, but jerked his head towards the house.

A strong drink and his dad's quiet explanation of what had happened, and Dean was a little bit more focused.

"Where's the Impala?" he finally spoke up.

"Out back. I didn't touch a thing."

Dean nodded tersely and went out. He couldn't help wincing at the sight. She was battered to pieces, and it would take a lot of work to get her in action again.

But first things first. Dean carefully pulled open the dented driver's door. Sam had been driving. The first thing he saw was the cell phone lying on the seat. So Sam had called 911. One mystery down. Next, he saw the Colt on the baseboard. With the hammer cocked. Dean frowned.

"Dean, what have you found?"

"Sam called 911. And I think something tried to come after us. The Colt is here. And . . ." Dean stiffened. "Sulfur."

His dad's sigh was one of resignation. "Just when I thought we had made a good escape. Any bullets left in the Colt?"

Dean swallowed his disappointment at his dad's first question being related to the hunt. "Yeah. Sam didn't use the bullet."

"So either it was a lackey or Sam didn't have enough time to use it," John mused. Dean ground his teeth.

"What did it do with Sam?" he growled.

Bobby gave Dean a hard look. "You two protected against possession?"

Dean blanched. "You think . . ."

His dad scrubbed a tired hand across his face. "Bobby, if you could call all your contacts, get everyone searching for Sam . . . please."

Bobby seemed appeased at the "please" and nodded, moving off to the house.

"Dad . . ." Dean mumbled, feeling helpless. "What do we do?"

"We keep hunting. Search for Sam in the meantime. We'll figure this out."

Dean had once completely relied on his father, especially after Sam went to Stanford. When Sam had been hunting with him, he had gradually ceased to rely on the man, but hearing him in all his confidence gave Dean a crutch, and Dean willingly leaned on it. Though he wished he could be leaning on Sam instead.

* * *

Matt ran his hands through his shorter hair. It wasn't that short . . . for some reason he didn't want to cut all of it off. Though it would be smarter, as a hunter, to have a crew cut or something. Still, it was out of his eyes. That was good enough.

He huffed in frustration. No hunt in this town, which meant no explanation for his amnesia.

Matt officially thought it was time for him to move on. It was obvious that there was nothing here for him. So all he needed was a ride.

Had he been a moral man, before forgetting everything? Matt didn't know, but stole the motorcycle anyway.

A couple minutes of riding, and Matt decided that while he didn't know if he normally would have stolen cars or motorcycles, he had definitely ridden a motorcycle before. Though maybe not for a long time, because it still had a foreign feel about it.

Matt grabbed a quick look at the phone book at his motel before heading out. Singer's Salvage. He needed to make the motorcycle unrecognizable.

Technically, Matt had enough money to pay whoever Singer was for a job on his motorcycle. But Singer could be a decent guy, and could figure out that the bike was stolen.

So Matt snuck in after dark. Found a flashlight, worked quickly and with fumbling fingers. Officially he was not a mechanic-oriented guy. Good to know.

A sloppy paint job, a different windshield, and Matt was out of there. He passed a beat up '67 Impala and winced. That had to have been a nasty crash. His brain backtracked. Huh. Maybe he was more of a car guy than he initially thought. No way he could've known about a random, half-destroyed car from a glance otherwise.

Matt shrugged and flung a leg over his bike. Time to hunt.

The drive was a couple hours, but Matt was still sore by the time he got there. Apparently it had been a long while since he had ridden a motorcycle. Oh well.

The hunt had a good feel about it. It was clearly an adlet, from all reports, and though technically it was a monster that deserved a couple hunters, Matt figured he might as well jump in and find out how good he really was.

Plus, it wasn't as if he was leaving anyone behind if he died. Matt reconsidered that thought. That was vaguely . . . suicidal of him. Hmm. Maybe he was a depressed kind of guy. He'd have to watch out for that.

A twisted ankle, a bruised side, and a ripped up shoulder. But Matt felt . . . alive. He was a good hunter. Maybe not great, because Matt had the vague feeling that he knew there were some better hunters out there. He worried at that, pulling at the twinge, but nothing came. No memories of someone else.

Matt made a pit stop to pick up a first aid kit. He could check suturing off of a list of skills, though he was clumsy. Maybe that meant he had normally had a partner.

Well, that probably meant said partner was dead. Matt shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs. No use focusing on that until something came up to really trigger his memory.

* * *

John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before looking at Dean. His son shrugged.

"Another hunter got here first?"

He pressed his lips together. "I suppose."

"I'm not complaining. Not overly fond of adlets." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. "Has Bobby . . .?"

"No," John said shortly. Dean's face held a flash of pain before returning to the stoic mask.

"What now?"

John turned away from the ashes of the adlet. "Head out for the next hunt," he responded coolly. Dean nodded, but the comfortable partnership John had once had with his oldest son wasn't there. John knew the reason, and it still rankled him that Dean preferred Sam over him. Especially with what Sam was supposed to become . . . John's thoughts stuttered to a stop. Dean still didn't know.

It was a whole week before John allowed himself to broach the topic. Not that he was a coward. But he was about to tell Dean that his younger brother was destined to go evil.

"Dean, we need to talk."

Dean stiffened, but continued to clean his gun. "Shoot."

"It's about Sam."

Stiffness became vibrating tension. John winced. This wasn't going to be easy. "We're going to find him," Dean said firmly. He probably assumed John was going to tell him it was hopeless, and that they should give up.

"That's not what I'm worried about," John said, as gently as he could.

Dean's bright green eyes snapped up. John heaved a sigh.

"Dean, the time I was gone, I was hunting the demon. And I have a bead on some of his plans, and it's . . . it's bad."

"Spit it out already," Dean growled.

"Sam's visions. His girlfriend dying in the same way that . . . Mary did. It's all connected to the demon, Dean."

Dean's hands were shaking as he set down the gun. John watched as he clasped them convulsively.

"That doesn't mean . . . so what does it mean?" he asked desperately.

"It means that we have to be prepared. If Sam's been taken by the demon, there's a chance that Sam won't be Sam when we find him. I don't know what the demon's plans are, not really. But it can't be good. If we can't save Sam, then we'll have to kill him."

"No," Dean muttered under his breath. Dean shuddered, and then raised his gaze to John's again. "It won't happen. We'll find him. It'll be fine."

"We don't know that for sure," John insisted. He had to get this through Dean's head. "If it's gone too far, you know what we'll have to do."

Dean looked sick. "What, kill Sam? The kid didn't kill you when you were possessed, and now you want to off him just because he might go bad?"

John set his face into the no-arguing cast. "Your first point is worthless. Sam should've killed me, and all this would've been avoided. But that aside, we can't take chances, Dean. We'll make sure. But if it's not him, then we'll have to stop him."

Dean swore thoroughly before hissing, "I can't do that. I can't kill Sammy."

"He won't be Sammy anymore," John said ruthlessly. He had to get through to Dean. His son's face was murderous.

"How can you . . . he's your son," Dean spat.

John remained silent, letting Dean read the realness of their situation on his face. Dean's finally crumpled.

"But . . . it's Sammy," he pleaded.

John sighed. "I know."

* * *

A/N: I know, you guys hate me for not finishing my other stories first *ducks rotten tomatoes*

But school's been killer, and for some reason this story was super easy for me to write. So bear with me. Spring break's coming up, so I'll at least try to get "I am a Soldier" finished, seeing as it's close to the ending for that one.

To any SPN readers out there, thanks for stopping by :)


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three months. Matt shucked off his leather jacket, which he'd taken off of a vampire a couple weeks back. Home sweet home. The motel was drab, but as long as it had hot water, Matt would be happy.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair absently. Through all this time, he had yet to figure out who he was. Matt was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

But hey, that wasn't the worst thing in the world. He was still on his feet, still hunting. Assuming the idiots he'd hooked up with wouldn't mess up this next hunt. Matt flopped down on the bed, idly scratching at his arm.

He didn't have warning for the sharp pain that flooded his brain. Matt didn't know what was happening, but he watched the scene play out in his mind's eye, horrified, and saw someone die.

That was weird. Matt sat up, slowly, rubbing his now-aching head. A flash from the past? Maybe his amnesia was finally breaking.

But he had no idea who that man was, or what kind of messed up memory it was.

So Matt ignored it and went about his business, like a good hunter.

His business that day meant saving sloppy hunters.

"Thanks, man."

"No problem," Matt said stiffly. "You good here?"

"Yeah. We'll burn the bodies."

Matt nodded in acceptance and got on his bike. "So long."

He barely got anywhere before a spike of pain in his head pulled his motorcycle into a veering path. Matt pulled the bike off the road, before he collapsed, his bike tipping over as another terrible death played out in front of him.

Matt cursed under his breath as he got to his feet. Whatever this was, it was not good.

He made it to the town over, and got a room before collapsing for the day. The next hunt could wait.

If only Matt could get rid of the feeling that something was really wrong with him. Because he was pretty sure whatever he was seeing was not a memory.

* * *

"I swear, it's like we get to a hunt and then someone else has already finished it," his dad groused.

Dean shrugged. "We must be trailing some other hunters. We'll catch up to them at some point, exchange numbers, and go opposite directions."

John scowled. "I know of some hunters in this area, but no way they could've handled beserkers on their own."

"So we talk to them?"

"Yeah."

Dean returned his attention to the road. He finally had the Impala back, after a lot of hard work on her. It still didn't make it easy, looking over and seeing his dad in the space where Sam should be sitting.

"Turn off here."

Dean silently followed his dad's directions. They arrived at a rough looking cabin, and Dean pressed his lips together to keep from grinning. Their interactions with other hunters was always pretty interesting, especially when his dad was involved.

"Johnny!"

Oh yeah. Very interesting. Dean couldn't hide his smirk, despite his dad's glare.

"Yah missed all the fun." The man gestured towards someone on the porch with a broken leg. "We got 'em all."

John's face was stoic, and Dean mimicked it. He couldn't help but remember the Benders from this set-up.

"You have help?" his dad asked bluntly.

The hunter gave a wry, sheepish grin. "Yeah. Guy was a good hunter. Went by Matt."

"He work alone?" Dean asked, surprised. Solo acts weren't that rare in hunting, but good hunters were normally smart enough to have backup.

"'Parently."

John twitched his shoulders. "Waste of time, Dean. We've got to go check out the poltergeist."

Dean nodded, but hesitated. "You haven't seen my brother, Sam, have you?"

The man shook his head. "I thought that kid was out of hunting?"

Dean shot his dad an accusatory glance. John had said he had asked everybody about Sam. "He's missing."

"Sorry to hear that. He was a cute kid."

"Not so much a kid anymore," Dean said with a pained grin. He sighed. "Let us know if you hear anything."

"Got it."

Back on the road. Another day, another job, and no Sam.

There wasn't much research to be done. They had gotten the details earlier from some of his dad's contacts. Dean pulled up outside the house, and frowned at the sight of a motorcycle leaning against the tree. This place was supposed to be abandoned.

"Great. Maybe this is that hunter again," John muttered.

"Probably. Bet he's trying to take it out on his own."

They both flinched at the sound of a gunshot in the house.

"Right. Let's do this."

Dean took point, his dad close behind him. They each had the hex bags necessary to banish the poltergeist, as well as salt and their shotguns. Hopefully the idiot hunter hadn't gotten himself killed.

They burst in to see a figure hunkered down behind a table as knives embedded themselves in the makeshift shield. Dean could see the hunter's hex bag on the floor. He acted on instinct, grabbing the bag and throwing it into the hole in the wall. There was a blast of something supernatural, and Dean figured that that was it.

"So you already get the other corners?" John asked. He hadn't given the hunter a glance, just had the shotgun raised in preparation for trouble.

"Yeah."

Dean froze, as did his dad. He knew that voice. He turned from the wall to stare at the hunter. The man was straightening to a considerable height. Dean swallowed. No. It couldn't be.

"I appreciate the help."

The hunter turned fully to face Dean.

"Sammy?"

* * *

Matt had been pretty surprised by the two men bursting in on his job, until he saw the shotguns and hex bags. Hunters. The younger one finished the job, and knives stopped tossing themselves.

Time for introductions. He stood, uncomfortable with how he was somewhat trapped between the two of them.

"I appreciate the help," he said, trying to keep things friendly. Both of them were staring at Matt as if he was the ghost himself.

"Sammy?"

Matt cocked his head at the younger-looking one. Where had that come from?

"Sorry, what?" he politely asked. He had come across a couple nut-job hunters, and it would be really bad if they happened to be insane.

"Sam," the man breathed, and Matt surreptitiously began backing up towards the counter, where his shotgun was.

"Listen, man, what's your problem?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Dean, he could be . . ."

"Dad, it's Sam, we can't just . . ."

Matt reached his gun and swung it around, pointing it at the son.

"Whoa, Sam. It's me, Dean. C'mon." The one called Dean looked at his father. "Do you think he's possessed?"

"I should be asking you that," Matt spat acerbically.

The father began reaching into his pocket. Matt pointed the gun at him.

"I've got holy water," he said calmly.

Matt narrowed his eyes. "If you're demons, then it won't be real holy water."

The other muttered something that sounded like "college boy," but Matt couldn't be sure.

"I think you two should leave," he suggested. The two of them cast a look at each other that said they were communicating non-verbally.

"Do you have holy water?" the elder asked.

Matt rolled his eyes. He didn't miss how the younger seemed to stiffen at Matt's reaction. What was his problem? "Of course."

"Right, so we'll just go out first, and then you check us for possession. And we'll check you." The older man tossed his flask at Matt, who caught it with one hand, using the other to keep the shotgun steady. Matt gave them both a suspicious glance before setting his gun down and screwing off the cap. Neither of them made a movement. Matt took a swig of the water.

"Satisfied?" he asked dryly. He was fast losing his reasoning for the two of them being possessed. It was more likely that they were insane.

"Yeah. Just . . . Sam, you don't know who we are?"

Matt scowled. "Who's this Sam?"

"You." The younger one . . . darn it, Matt had forgotten his name, was looking at Matt as if he was the crazy one.

"Sure." Matt kept his tone skeptic, but couldn't help feeling a thrill of possibility. Maybe these two weren't crazy, and they had known him before the whole amnesia deal. He gestured to the door. "You guys first."

Matt followed them cautiously, not missing the way the two were silently communicating. Father son deal. Which meant they were probably pretty in-tune to each other. If they wanted to take him out, they probably could. Matt would have to stay on his toes.

He reached his bike and rummaged around in his duffel, pulling out the holy water. Both of them went through his test.

"One more test for you," the father interjected, as Matt moved to put away the water. He held out a knife, handle facing Matt.

Matt looked at him suspiciously. "What's that?"

"Silver."

Understanding flashed through Matt, and he took the knife, carefully drawing it across his forearm before passing it back to the elder.

"Sammy," the other one whispered, and Matt looked at him uncomfortably.

"Look, I don't . . . I'm a little lost here," he admitted. "Do I know you two?"

They exchanged glances again. Matt didn't like being out of the loop.

"I don't know what's going on, Sam, but I mean . . . you're Sam. You're my brother."

Matt stared at them blankly, before laughing. That settled it, they were insane.

* * *

As Dean watched, Sam actually . . . laughed. Laughed at the thought of them being brothers. Dean tried not to let it get to him. After he stopped, he gave Dean a condescending glance.

"Sure. And you just . . . out of the blue, show up and announce yourself as my brother. What TV show is this for?"

Dean ignored the bite of hurt. "I am your brother. And he's our dad. You're Sam Winchester."

Something flashed across Sam's face . . . hope, maybe, but it was gone too fast for Dean to tell.

"The name's Matt."

Dean felt himself getting angry. "No, it's not. Sam, what do you remember?"

The first sign of weakness flashed across Sam's face. "I don't . . . I don't. But you . . ." The fight seemed to leak out of Sam's body. "I can't . . ."

"Why don't we go back to the motel and talk about this?" their Dad suggested calmly. How he could be calm in a time like this was beyond Dean.

"I'll follow you there," Sam muttered. He swung a leg over his bike before Dean could protest, revving the engine. Dean hovered, uncertain that Sam wouldn't disappear before his dad grabbed his shoulder.

"Give him space, Dean," he muttered

He threw himself into the Impala. "Dad, keep your eye on him."

His dad didn't argue. "Dean, we have to be careful."

"Why, cuz he might be evil?" Dean growled. "I get it, Dad. But I can't just . . ."

"Not just that. But if he doesn't remember anything, there's no telling what the demon's convinced him. It's obvious he's hunting, but it could be that the demon has some influence over him."

"I get it," Dean muttered. He glanced in the rearview, seeing the figure on the motorcycle following steadily. He laughed a little shakily. "Sammy on a motorcycle. Who would've thought. And a new haircut."

His dad didn't respond, and Dean clenched his hands on the wheel to keep from shaking. Dean pulled into the motel parking lot and Sam roared up beside them. Dean couldn't keep his eyes off his little brother. He was probably freaking the guy out, but still. All he wanted to do was give the guy a hug, and here he was trying to not scare him off.

They filed into the room. Sam was as tense as Dean had ever seen him. He could tell there was a weapon of some kind in his pocket, because the kid had yet to take his left hand out of his pocket.

"I'd like some proof," Sam announced. Dean nodded. That he could do. He pulled out his wallet, passing a well-worn photo to his memory-less brother. Sam's face was impassive as he examined the picture.

"I also have your stuff in the car. Not sure that you'd remember any of it, but . . ."

"Later," Sam mumbled. Dean could hear the way he was trying to digest everything, and sighed.

"Sam, what . . ."

"Wait. Just . . . I mean, I'm not saying I don't believe you, but can you call me Matt? It's weird, you . . ." Sam shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and Dean bit his lip.

"Sure thing."

Their dad watched them from the corner, silent.

"Sa-Matt, what do you remember?" Dean asked gently.

"Nothing personal. Just, you know, common knowledge. And hunting. But aside from that . . ." Sam gestured helplessly.

"What do you know about demons?" John spoke up. Dean shot his dad a sharp look, but his father was focusing on Sam.

"I know how to exorcise one, but they're pretty rare. Haven't come up against one for a while," Sam replied casually.

"So . . ." Dean hesitated. "What do we do now?"

Sam shifted from one leg to the other. "What are your names?"

That hurt more than he could let it. Dean swallowed. "I'm Dean."

"And you?" Sam looked to their dad.

"I'm your dad," John said calmly.

"What's your name?" Sam insisted.

"John Winchester."

Sam nodded. "Right."

* * *

Matt didn't know whether to freak out or just . . . well, he didn't know. And that was the problem. These people knew him, but he had no idea who they were. John went out to grab them dinner, and Matt was left alone with Dean.

"So, you're my brother."

"Yeah," Dean responded warily.

Matt cocked his head. "Older or younger?"

That got a burst of startled laughter from the hunter. "Older." His grin faded quickly.

Matt shifted on his feet. The man looked at him oddly. "Look, Sa-I mean, Matt. Don't freak out, I just . . ." He approached Matt, and Matt resisted the urge to flinch away. There was something desperate in the green eyes though, so he didn't move.

"What?" he asked softly.

"You're . . . you're okay, right?" Dean murmured, rough voice low. One hand reached out to touch Matt's arm.

Matt was startled. No one had asked him that in months. "I . . . I guess."

Before he knew what had happened, Matt found himself in a bone-crushing hug. Dean backed off as fast as possible though, rubbing his mouth self-consciously.

"I'm sorry. I just . . . Yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay," Matt offered numbly. The other man scrubbed a hand across his face. Matt hesitantly opened with, "so . . . what was I like?"

Dean coughed, not quite covering up the laugh. "Uh, you were . . . you were my little brother. Bit of a girl at times, but you had my back."

"Oh." Matt hadn't known what to expect from asking that, and ran a hand through his hair uncomfortably.

"At least you cut your hair," Dean muttered. Matt threw him a confused look. "You . . . you always kept it long. Kind of a defiance thing against dad. Always ragged on you about it."

"Huh." Matt read into that, and decided that he must have some kind of rocky relationship with his dad. It wasn't like the guy was open-armed. At least not like Dean.

"What's the first thing you remember?"

Matt shrugged and leaned up against the flimsy table in the room. "I woke up a few months back in, uh, Sioux Falls. Figured something supernatural had stolen my memories, but there wasn't a hunt. So I just started hunting."

"Sioux Falls?" Dean repeated.

Matt nodded.

"You were so close," Dean whispered. He then seemed to think over something else. His face looked simultaneously proud and torn. "You've been hunting all this time?"

"Well, yeah," Matt said, "what else would I do?"

Dean shook his head. "I dunno. I'm just . . . I'm just as lost as you."

John came in, and Matt slipped his hand into his pocket to grip his knife again. It wasn't that he trusted Dean more (though deep down, something in him did), but he was outnumbered now. And there was something in John's face that set Matt on edge.

"Here." The older man tossed him a sandwich. Matt accepted it without comment. But he had to get an answer to the main question that had been on his mind since he had woken up with amnesia.

"So were we working different jobs?"

Dean focused on him, looking confused. "What do you mean?"

Matt forced himself to stay detached. "I woke up, and it's not like anyone around was looking for me. Or did we have some kind of fight?"

Dean's face crumpled. "Sam, I mean, uh, Matt, we . . . there was a car crash. When I woke up in the hospital, you were just missing."

Matt frowned. "That doesn't explain it. From that it would seem that amnesia would have come from a blow to the head during the crash, but there was no trauma."

"None at all?" John's voice had something underneath it, but Matt couldn't read it.

Matt shook his head. "And why didn't you look for me?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice.

"We did. But S-Matt, the crash wasn't in Sioux Falls."

"Dean," John said sharply. Matt watched the two of them suspiciously. "Everyone needs to calm down."

Matt took a bite of his sandwich, tasting nothing. They were hiding something.

* * *

"You doing okay?" Dean asked carefully. Sam seemed perpetually startled whenever he showed some sort of concern. A by-product of waking up alone and hunting solo for months with no memory, Dean thought bitterly.

Sam kneaded his forehead wearily. "Headache."

"Here." Dean reached into his bag, tossing Sam some aspirin.

Sam muttered thanks, dry-swallowing a couple. He looked at Dean through squinting eyes. "Hey, do you know anything about amnesia symptoms? I had a weird sort of . . . I dunno, memory flash or something a while back."

Dean froze. "Did the memory seem like yours?"

Sam huffed impatiently. "That's the problem. It didn't feel like a memory. Didn't even recognize the poor guy. And it gave me the worst headache in the world."

"Ah." Dean swallowed, casting a quick glance at his dad, who was concentrating on his journal at the time. "I know this is gonna sound crazy, Sa-Matt, but just bear with me. I think you had a vision."

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed. Dean didn't smile, and Sam's face smoothed out into something dark and emotionless. "You aren't joking. What makes you say that?"

"Because you had them before. Before you went missing."

"Is that right." Sam's gaze was suspicious. "Proof?"

Dean threw up his hands helplessly. "I don't have documents of everything, man." As he watched, Sam clenched his jaw, a sure-fire sign that he was in pain. "Sam?"

He didn't respond, and Dean amended, "Matt?"

"I think . . ." he suddenly collapsed, face screwed in pain and eyes tracking something Dean couldn't see. Sam sat up with a gasp, his eyes first going to Dean's. For a moment, Dean thought everything was back to normal, from the relief in his brother's eyes at seeing him. A second later, and Sam had pushed away from him.

"You . . . you're sure they aren't memories?" he asked weakly. Dean glanced at their dad, who was half-standing.

"Yeah, why?"

"Because you were in it," he choked out. "I just watched you murder someone."

Sam seemed completely freaked, but Dean couldn't do much about it. Before, after one of Sam's visions, he would get the kid to lie down, get a cool washcloth for his forehead, and sit nearby, just to be there for him. It had always worked.

Now, Sam was skittish, not wanting anyone within a few feet of him. All Dean could do was say that they would check out his vision.

"I need to fill Bobby in. You boys figure out what's going on there, I'll meet up with you after," his dad said. Dean didn't miss how relieved Sam looked at the prospect.

"We'll meet at . . ."

"At Bobby Singer's."

Sam's head snapped up. "Singer? You mean . . . huh. I knew your Impala looked familiar."

Dean gave Sam a questioning look.

"I, uh, stole from the guy. After stealing my bike, I went through and used some of his paint and stuff."

Dean snorted. "Tell Bobby that, Dad. He's been wondering for months where that paint went."

"You two will be all right?"

"Course," Dean offered, flicking his eyes towards Sam. His brother didn't look so sure.

They were left alone, and Dean gave Sam another glance. "You'll have to see Bobby. He's been worried."

"So I . . . you know him from what?"

"He's a hunter. Used to work with Dad before, until they had a bit of a falling out. We got help from him a while back."

"Ah." Sam's gaze was wary.

"So, you ready to do this thing?"

* * *

**A/N:** I love reviews! Please let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hey! So really quick, wanted to address a comment that it was a really short amount of time before Dean met up with amnesia!Sam. Reason why: this started off as a oneshot, and isn't a very long story overall. It follows Season 2, but only in a very vague kind of way.

Just wanted to clear that up! Enjoy. :)

* * *

Matt refused to give up his bike. Something in the other man's eyes told him that refusing to ride in the Impala was hurting him, but Matt wasn't ready to lower his defenses just yet.

In any case, everything was too weird. Nothing made sense. Visions? Psychic junk? He had never heard of that, though maybe that had been one of the things hidden away when his memories were taken.

It was really easy, though, to work with Dean. Matt was almost certain that they were brothers, or at least partners in the past, because they just fit together. And Matt couldn't deny that it was comforting, to have someone who seemed to be backing him up. Still. He couldn't drop his guard, not for anything.

And in the end, Matt was glad for that. He needed to be on the edge for this case. A demon virus.

It swept through the small town they were in, apparently transferred by blood to blood contact. Matt ended up holed in a small clinic with Dean, along with a few survivors.

The plan was to fight their way out of the town. Matt let his enthusiasm for getting explosives together to cloud his judgement, and he found himself locked in a room with one of the infected.

She was too quick, he was too slow. She used a knife to slice across his collarbone and mixed her own blood into it.

"Sammy!"

Matt could hear the roar of fear and love in that voice, and began to accept that maybe he had found his family. Not that it mattered anymore. He was going to die.

"I'm infected. You guys fight your way out. I'll stay here. I'll . . ." Matt pulled out his gun, caressing the barrel absently.

"No, Sam."

Matt looked at his brother in pity. "Dean, I'm sorry. You know it's the only way."

"I don't care. It's not . . . you're not going to kill yourself."

"You can do it," Matt offered. He realized that he was too casual by the way the hunter's face paled.

"It's not happening," he growled.

Matt regarded him, confused. "Dude, it's not a big deal. People die on this job. My time's up."

"I'm not accepting that," Dean said firmly. Matt felt a flash of annoyance.

"I don't even remember you. Why are you bothering?" he snapped.

"Because you're my brother, Sammy. I don't care if you remember me or think I'm a madman. And that's just the way it is going to be."

Matt gaped at him. He was silent as Dean began directing the others to leave. Dean locked the door, leaving the two of them in solitude.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Dean's look was pure confusion. "I'm sorry that I don't remember that I'm your brother," Matt clarified. Dean's stoic face cracked into something broken and tired.

"I'm sorry too," he murmured.

They sat, waiting for the virus to take effect. When nothing happened after three hours, they ventured outdoors.

"So, what do you think?" Matt muttered. The town was completely empty.

"I . . . I really don't know." Dean cast him a sidelong glance.

"I guess I'm immune," Matt said softly. He noticed Dean's expression grow hard.

"Let's go find Dad."

* * *

Dean glanced in the rearview. Sam was still following him. His thoughts were racing a million miles an hour. Everything was piling up. All Dean wanted to do was crawl in a hole and hide until the storm passed.

But he couldn't. Not while Sam didn't know he was Sam, and he was immune to a demon virus, and . . .

Sometimes Dean hated his life.

He pulled into Bobby's, relieved to find his dad's truck there. They really needed to talk through, get things straightened out.

Sam dismounted easily, untying his duffel from the back. Dean gave him a cursory glance. He was still wearing flannel, somehow that had come through, but he had a leather jacket. If Dean thought about it too much, he might think it was some kind of memory of him. He still didn't know about the motorcycle.

"You have enough clothes?" Dean checked.

Sam shrugged. "I guess."

"I've got . . . I've got your stuff here. If you want to see if you remember anything."

"Oh. Sure."

Dean opened the trunk, reaching deep within where Sam's old duffel was stashed.

"Did I keep a journal?" Sam's voice was deliberately casual. Dean shook his head.

"I never saw you keeping one."

His brother grunted in response. He hoisted both duffels onto his shoulders.

"I still can't figure out how you knew how to ride a motorcycle," Dean muttered.

Sam gave him an amused glance. "Well, I definitely did at some point in my life. Knew how to, anyway."

"Sam . . ." Dean began.

"Look, I . . . It's still weird. I'm not Sam anymore. Or at least I won't be, until I get my memories back."

Dean had really thought they had made progress, after the demon virus. The way Sam had looked at him when he refused to leave, he had almost let himself believe that there was trust building. Apparently not that much.

"Sure, Matt," he muttered.

Bobby opened the door. "Good to see you, boy," he called to Sam. Sam's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I suppose," he responded coolly.

Dean gave Bobby an apologetic look, which the older hunter waved off. "You two hungry?"

His dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Dean threw him a tired grin before collapsing next to him.

"Coulda used your help on that one," he grunted under his breath.

"You seem to have done all right," his dad returned calmly. Dean's smile disappeared.

Sam was standing close to the door. He had an escape, that way, Dean realized.

"Sam, you want something to eat?"

Sam's slow gaze moved to trap Bobby. "It's Matt," he said softly. Anyone else would think Sam was completely in control, but Dean could see the way he was gripping his bags and on the balls of his feet. The guy was close to freaking.

"There's a couch over there if you want to relax," Bobby suggested.

"Sure." Sam threw a piercing look at Dean before moving off.

Bobby gave both of them a look before closing the doors between them and Sam. "All right. What's going on?"

* * *

Matt waited a couple seconds before opening the window and slipping outside. He had seen that the kitchen window was open. With any luck, they wouldn't check on him.

"-he was immune to the virus."

"You know what this means, Dean."

"What, that he's going to turn evil? I still can't buy that, Dad."

"The demon's obviously taking it by pieces. First he takes away Sam's memories. But he keeps him a hunter. That's to keep him sharp. His immunity is just another sign of his connection."

A foreign voice spoke up before Matt connected the voice to Bobby. "So what do we do?"

"We keep an eye on him. If it goes too far, we do what needs to be done." John's voice was steady.

"Yeah, cuz I can't wait to kill my own brother."

Matt had heard enough. He darted away, slipping back in and shutting the window quietly. He could leave now, but his motorcycle was low on gas.

Time to break up their party. He opened the kitchen door, noticing how they all froze comically. Matt couldn't afford to smile, but politely asked where the bathroom was.

Night came. Matt refused to sleep in the bedroom with Dean, which was apparently what the arrangement had once been. He took the couch. Matt allowed himself to sleep for a couple hours before slipping out. A quick search, and he found enough gas to get him a couple town over. Matt strapped down the two duffels with a little difficulty. He had yet to go through his old possessions, but he would examine them as soon as he was clear from danger. Matt mounted his bike.

"Going somewhere?"

Matt cursed under his breath before turning and regarding Bobby calmly. "Thank you for your hospitality. But I'm moving on."

Bobby's face was hard. "You can't just move on. They're your family, you idjit."

Matt let out a sharp bark of laughter. "The family that wants me dead. Thanks. I'll pass." He sped off before the man could get out another word. He would have to burn hard for a couple hours until he was clear from them.

Matt finally made it to a rundown motel. He hid his bike in the nearby forest before settling back.

He rifled through the old duffel. The clothes were normal, though there were a couple odd t-shirts. Matt found some money, probably an emergency stash, and some random pictures. There was one of a blonde chick, a picture that was maybe of John and some other woman . . . his mother? and a couple of him and Dean.

Matt dug deeper, and found the bottom of the bag felt thicker than it should have. He felt around until a zipper came up.

So. Dean had either been lying about the journal, or really hadn't known.

Matt opened it quickly, with no little amount of trepidation.

There was limited notes on hunting. Apparently he hadn't been the best hunter, before. Matt found his lip curling in slight disgust. Maybe it was a good thing he had lost his memories.

The personal entries didn't tell him much. Apparently his mom had died in a fire in his nursery. His journal had some threads of guilt in that. There was a lot of talk about some girl named "Jess" so maybe that was the girl in the picture. Matt figured maybe an old girlfriend, though from the entries, she was dead.

Oh, there was a good reason. Killed by a demon, the same one that had killed his mother. Matt began reading closer. Visions were also described in detail, and apparent fear.

Things were becoming clearer. Somehow, this demon was connected to Matt. That was why John and Dean were thinking they might have to kill him. Matt sat back, considering everything he had learned. He glanced back down at one of the entries.

There was a pattern. Matt wasn't the only one connected to the demon. There was a kid, Max Miller. Mother also died in a fire, also had abilities.

Matt closed the journal with a snap. A pattern meant he could figure out where to go from there.

The next day, Matt headed for the Roadhouse. He had come across the bar a few months back, and had found several hunters who could help him.

"Matt, haven't seen you in a while. How're you doing?"

"Good, Ellen," Matt responded calmly. "I could use Ash's help."

"Sure thing, sweetie." Ellen shouted for Ash before turning back to Matt. "You look tired. Finish a big hunt?"

Matt smiled wryly. "You have no idea."

There were a couple other hunters at the bar, but Matt ignored them. Ash came over and it was time to start searching.

* * *

"Why would he leave?" Dean raged. "He knows we're family."

"Dean, he overheard us talking about the demon. I'm pretty sure anyone would run when they overhear people they just met talking about killing 'em," Bobby reasoned.

"Great," his dad growled. "So we have to chase him down, now."

"Am I doing a contact sweep again?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, sounds good," Dean said. He paused. "This time, make sure you mention that he might be going by Matt."

Time to wait.

"Ellen, have you seen Sam Winchester recently?"

Dean waited, hating only hearing one side of the conversation.

"He might have been going by Matt."

Dean hated not doing anything. Bobby was making most of the calls, his dad also making a few himself.

"Really? Yes, that is Sam. He's had some kind of amnesia. Where is he headed? Ellen, c'mon, don't you trust me? His family's searching for him."

Dean was on the edge of his seat.

Bobby put down the phone. "He's on some kind of hunt. Better move fast if you want to catch him."

Dean was already on his feet, calling for his dad.

"You two be careful. Bring him back in one piece," Bobby ordered Dean.

They found Sam. The problem was, Sam already had someone on his tail.

"Who is that?" Dean hissed.

"No idea. Looks like another hunter, actually," his dad whispered.

"Hunting Sam?" Dean hissed.

"Apparently. He must know about the visions."

Dean threw his dad a look. The hunter was on the roof now, beginning to set up a sniper rifle. "So what?"

"So, he's probably come to the conclusion that any of the kids connected with this are monsters."

Dean focused once more on the hunter. "And you?"

His dad took too long answering. "We'll see."

They took out the man easily.

"Who are you?"

"Gordon Walker."

He was oddly compliant. "Why are you hunting Sam?" Dean growled.

"Because he's a monster. I'm just doing my job."

"Let us worry about Sam," John said firmly. "We're keeping an eye on him for now."

"Is that right." Gordon's gaze was calculating. Dean officially didn't like him.

The older men held each other's gazes until Gordon bowed his head. "Very well."

Dean jutted his chin defensively as his dad released the other hunter. At least this hadn't ended violently, but he still didn't like the whole situation.

They headed for Sam's motel room.

"We've just got to reason with him," his dad murmured.

"Yeah, reason and tell him we're not going to kill him," Dean returned.

"We just tell him that it's because of the memory thing, that we think the demon's altered him."

"Won't that freak him out more?" Dean questioned.

"Possibly," his dad conceded, "but he should be able to figure out that it will be safer to stay together."

"Whatever you say," Dean muttered.

He knocked. The door was opened slowly, and Sam appeared.

"Hey, uh, Matt . . ." Dean got out before his brother kicked out, getting Dean in the solar plexus. Dean folded, gasping for breath. Sam turned on their dad. As Dean struggled to suck in enough breath, their fight played out, and somehow Sam managed to get a mean right hook in and follow it with a knee in his dad's gut.

"John, Dean, it was nice finding out you were my family and all. And that you'd like to kill me. If I see either of you again, I want both of you to know that I have no qualms about killing either of you."

Dean felt a flash of fear. He had never seen Sam look so . . . evil. Something in his brother's expression broke a little though, and he saw Sammy again.

"Figures, I would lose my memory and end up with a family that wants to kill me," he said bitterly.

Dean took a deep breath. "Sam, please, let's talk about this. You don't have the whole story."

"It's Matt," Sam ground out, "and don't I? I'm connected with some demon who apparently killed some girl named Jess and your mom. I'd say I have a pretty good idea of what's going on."

"I'm trying to save you, S-Matt," Dean begged. "Please, give me a chance."

* * *

Matt stared at Dean. His hunting instincts were telling him to run now, while he had the chance, but the way the man seemed so desperate . . .

He could see John moving to get to his feet. Matt pulled out his gun, pointing it at the hunter. "Stay down, John."

Dean raised his hands in some kind of placating motion. "Matt. Please. I'm not going to kill you. I don't think I ever could, even if you did go dark side. You're my brother, man."

Matt pressed his lips together. He shouldn't, but the way the guy had been willing to stay with him, to die with him . . . "Alright."

"Really?" Dean started, but Matt held up a hand.

"Only you. Not John."

"I'm your father," John spoke up.

Matt offered him a cold smile. "No offense, but not getting any warm fuzzy feels here. John can go off and do his own thing."

As he watched, the two of them exchanged glances. "Dad, it'll be okay."

"Okay," John relented.

Matt sighed. "You can take my bike back when you go to Singer's. It's over there, in the woods. Better get her back to me in one piece." He tossed the man his keys. "C'mon, there's a hunt a state over," he said to Dean. His hunt for answers about the demon was a dead end anyway. The hunter nodded, but first helped his father to his feet, muttering something as he did so. Matt watched, suspicious, but nothing happened.

"You need to get your stuff together?" Dean asked.

Matt nodded towards his two bags. "I'm all set." He swung both over his shoulder before following the older man.

"Look, not that I'm not grateful you didn't kill us both, but what made you change your mind?" Dean asked, stopping before the car.

Matt shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "I mean, I've never murdered anyone before. And . . . well, I think you are my brother. I may not remember it, but there's something to it."

Dean's expression was unreadable. But he gave Matt a nod of appreciation before swinging into the car. Matt followed, shifting uncomfortably on the leather seat.

"Have you had this car long?" he eventually asked, just to make conversation.

Dean's grin was wide. "Dude, we've had this car our whole lives."

"Ah."

Dean's smile leaked away. "So, what's happened in the past few months?"

Matt tensed. "Hunting."

"Descriptive," Dean muttered sarcastically. "All right, let's start with something easier. Where'd you get the jacket?"

Matt glanced down, surprised. "Uh, off a vampire. Took down a nest."

"By yourself?" Dean's voice was surprised, and somehow that annoyed Matt.

"I was always alone," he returned coolly.

He chanced a glance at the other hunter. His lips were pressed together, and if Matt knew the guy better, he might think he was upset.

They drove for a while. In a lot of ways it was uncomfortable, but in some ways it beat traveling the miles on his bike, alone.


	4. Chapter 4

A sword-wielding ghost. Dean, ultimately, was pretty happy. For one, this hunt got cool points for being different. For another, he had Sam with him. Though . . . not really. But Dean would take what he could get.

"Keep digging," Sam growled, swinging the gun around and blasting the ghost.

"Bossy," Dean muttered. Sam looked at him incredulously, and Dean saw his brother's lips twitch upwards slightly. That was when he hit pay dirt. He tore the coffin open, and looked up. "Yahtzee."

Sam went for the salt as Dean climbed out of the shallow grave. He was just going for his lighter, but the ghost had other ideas. Dean saw it materialize next to Sam, and knew he would only have seconds.

"Sammy!" He dove for his brother, shoving him back.

The sword swung, and Dean felt a fiery pain go across his side. Not too deep. That was good, Dean thought dazedly, and then he slammed painfully into the ground, his head bouncing against the packed dirt.

Sam was shouting something, and then Dean felt a warmth of heat somewhere . . . somewhere. He passed out.

He woke up in a bed. Dean forced his eyes open, gazing around blearily.

"Don't move." It was Sam's voice. Dean instinctively relaxed until he remembered that it was memory-less Sam. He tensed again, and forced his eyes to focus.

"Wwhappened," he slurred.

"I stitched you up. You just need to rest and hope it doesn't get infected."

Dean focused on himself, and realized a dull sort of throbbing coming from his side. "Oh," he murmured.

"Here, take this." Two pills were held in front of his face, and Dean took them shakily.

"Y'okay?" he checked. Sam froze before his expression was wiped clean.

"Thanks to you."

His brother sounded supremely uncomfortable. Dean frowned, shifting. "Wha's wrong?" he managed.

"Don't worry about it."

Dean was going to protest, but maybe there was something in those pills, because he found himself slipping away.

He woke up to darkness. Dean let his eyes adjust before looking at his surroundings. Motel room. Sam must've driven them back. And carried him in. Dean grimaced. He didn't want that picture in his brain. Speaking of Sam . . . Dean looked around again, confused. There was just the one king bed.

Sam was sleeping on the floor. Dean felt a stab of pity and sorrow. Sam was so lost.

Dean slept through most of the day. When he woke up, it was late afternoon, and Sam was changing his bandages.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered. His brother stiffened.

"For saving me?" the question came, pathetic despite the stoic tone.

"Ruined our first hunt together," Dean corrected sleepily. "Dude, don't sleep on the floor."

"You need the bed," Sam muttered.

"'S'big," Dean said with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Don't worry, Sammy. I don't kick."

Sam snorted. "Whatever."

"Yeah," Dean murmured, feeling himself drift off again. The next time he woke up, it was night, and Sam was curled up next to him, arm flung across his chest. Dean resisted the urge to laugh. Sammy was still there, just hidden under the layers.

* * *

Matt felt pretty odd about the whole situation. He had never (at least, before his memories went missing) actually taken care of someone.

What made it weirder was that Dean had apparently forgotten his name was Matt now, and was convinced he was Sammy. Matt figured it was a side-effect of the infection he was battling.

That didn't stop him from feeling somehow . . . inadequate. Matt had never really concentrated on the fact that he had lost a part of himself. It had been enough that he could fight and keep going. Sometimes he even felt free, feeling that his memories would make everything cloudier. But hearing Dean taking a hit for him, calling him "Sammy," and acting like they were brothers . . . Matt didn't know how to handle it.

So all in all, he was relieved when Dean was up and kicking, calling him Matt, and speeding off to the next hunt. And the one after that. They made a good team, and took down supernaturals almost easily. At least, it seemed like that to Matt. Hunting was actually _fun_.

The continual nagging thought that Dean might murder him always killed the mood though, even when he was at a bar.

"C'mon, Matt, why the long face?"

Matt looked with slight disdain on the inebriated Dean. He got a lopsided smile in return.

"Please, Matt. You gotta get out of this funk. It's almost as bad as the old you."

"The old me?" Matt repeated.

"You know. Before the memory thing. You were all . . . emo, you know?"

"Is that right," Matt whispered. That was . . . telling. "So, tell me, Dean. Do you want me to get my memories back?"

"Course."

"No, but really. Would you? Sam didn't sound like a very fun guy."

"S'pose." Dean's attention was fading. Matt realized this was probably the guy's first time drunk in a long time.

"Let's get back to the room, shall we?" he suggested, skillfully maneuvering Dean through the tables and people.

"Sure thing, Matt."

Matt sifted through his thoughts carefully. Dean had apparently split him into two separate people. Old and new.

And Matt didn't know if he wanted his memories back or not.

The next hunt was a rawhead, and Dean was acting weird.

"What's your problem, man?" he asked impatiently as he pawed through the trunk. "And why don't you have any tasers?"

"We got rid of them."

Matt rolled his eyes. "I didn't read that journal close enough to know what situation this is from, but it's the only way to kill these things."

Dean's face was shut off. "What did you read?"

Matt gave up his hunt for the taser and threw up his hands. "I dunno! Random, touchy-feely junk. The guy wasn't exactly organized. Hardly mentioned the hunt, for crying out loud."

"Last time we hunted a rawhead, I . . . I nearly died."

Matt reassessed the hunter. It wasn't like they didn't nearly die every single hunt. So there was something special about this one. "What, we give up the hunt?"

Dean sighed. "No. We'll do this. Just . . . just watch out for water."

"I'll take point this one," Matt decided. Dean was about to protest, but Matt pinned him with a glare.

The abandoned house was reminiscent of half of their hunts. Matt felt confident. No matter what Dean's issues were, it was just a rawhead. A little electricity, and the monster would be toast.

Assuming said monster didn't happen to come at Matt from the side. He was sent flying, crashing painfully into some old cabinets on his way down. Matt heard Dean's shout, but it came through a ringing in his ears. An assessment of himself, and he figured that he was mostly bruised. But he ached and couldn't move, not yet.

Dean was hovering in front of him. "How many fingers, Sa-Matt."

"Forget the fingers, let's just get out of here," Matt grunted. Dean nodded shortly, slipping an arm underneath him. Matt gasped as he pulled upward, and Dean backed off.

"What is it?"

"Back and sides." Matt grit his teeth.

"Right. I'll just pull you up quick." Dean wrapped him in a bear hug and swiftly pulled upward. Matt couldn't help the cry of pain.

"Easy, bro. C'mon. The more you stand on your own, the more I won't be hurting you."

Matt swayed, and the hunter pulled one of Matt's arms over his shoulders.

"No collapsing, man. You're too big for me to carry."

* * *

Dean was never going to hunt a rawhead again. That was final. Set in Winchester law.

It had been, before. Sam had made that clear after Dean's brush with death by electrocution. Never again. Dean had been unaccountably disappointed and hurt in Matt's-Sam's eagerness for the hunt . . . it wasn't like the guy remembered, after all. But he still was Sam, even if Dean had separated them in his head for clarity's sake.

"Hey, stay awake. No going towards the light, huh?"

"Not dying," Sam muttered. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No, you're just staring around dazedly because you like to look stupid."

He got a glare, if a pained one, for his trouble. Dean got them to the motel without too much trouble. Getting Sam into the room was no picnic, but at least his brother was still on his feet. Until Dean dumped him on the bed.

"All right, buddy, let's see how bad it is, huh?" Dean tried to lift Sam's arm above his head so he could get his shirt off, but Sam groaned, effectively stopping that. "Well," Dean muttered, "sorry about the shirt."

He cut it off in oft-practiced motions. And winced. Sam's torso was practically a rainbow of colors. Dean frowned. He knew that Sam's life had been rough while he had been on his own, but the amount of scars he didn't recognize . . .

Dean missed his brother. He grimaced at the thought. His brother was right here. He couldn't let himself forget that.

While Dean had been doing his inner-monologue, Sam had dropped off to sleep. Dean ruffled his brother's hair affectionately before pulling the blanket over him.

Dean woke up in the middle night for no apparent reason. Grumbling to himself, he rolled over to blink at the alarm clock. 2:00 am. Great.

Then he heard a whimper. Dean froze. He hadn't heard a sound that . . . weak from Sam since, well, since the demon took Sam's memories. Dean sat up, throwing off his covers and moving over to Sam's bed. Nightmare.

"Sam, I mean, uh, Matt. Wake up."

Sam shot up, eyes wild, panting. Dean bit his lip, unsure of what his brother's reaction would be. This was classic Jessica-nightmare symptoms, but technically Sam didn't remember any of that. Unless it was breaking through.

"Hey, you're all right."

Sam's eyes gradually calmed, the darkness making them seem nearly black. Like a demon's. Dean swallowed.

"What are you doing?" Sam rasped.

"You . . . you had a nightmare," Dean responded.

"So?" Sam's breathing was ragged.

"So, you're not alone anymore," Dean said impatiently. "Look, I get that you don't remember me. Or anything. But the nightmares always got to you. And . . . I'm here. If you want to talk. Or not. Whatever." Dean licked his lips, suddenly feeling nervous. The whole baring of souls had really never been their deal.

"I'm fine."

"Did you remember anything?"

If Dean wasn't mistaken, Sam's eyes suddenly shifted, looking at Dean as a threat. "No."

Dean wasn't stupid. It was time to back off. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

* * *

"Sam Winchester. Look at you. All growed up."

Matt whirled, finding a strange man standing there. And there was . . . an old abandoned town. Odd.

"Who are you?" he asked, trying to put some strength behind his voice.

"Aw, you don't remember me?" The man's smile grew, and Matt shuddered.

"Are you . . ."

"Azazel. Nice to meet you again." The man, no, demon's, eyes flashed yellow. Matt flinched.

"Did you take my memories?" he managed.

"Yes. You'll get them back. Piece by piece. No worries. But until then . . ." Azazel flicked his hand and Matt was on fire. He screamed and . . . woke up.

To find Dean inches away. Matt flinched. Still, it was oddly comforting not waking up to blackness.

Matt avoided any of Dean's questions. He couldn't talk about it. Not yet.

Then the dreams came every night. Only they weren't dreams, they were memories. Matt knew that they were the worst memories possible . . . assuming of course, that his life wasn't actually the hell he was seeing.

They were driving when Matt blurted out, "so you hate me?"

Dean looked baffled. "What?"

"For leaving. That night, you . . . when I went to Stanford."

Dean snorted. "Dude, don't read too much into that journal. Sam, I mean, you always over-thought things."

"Not in the journal," Matt muttered. That got Dean's attention.

"You're remembering?"

"Bits and pieces," Matt evaded.

Dean frowned. "Then why would you think I hate you?"

Matt shifted on the leather, picking at his jeans. "It seems pretty clear from the memories, that you . . ."

"That's all wrong." Dean's voice was sharp and strong, and not lying. "Matt, we have some bad stuff in our history. Who doesn't, right?"

Matt frowned. "I have a memory of a shifter, and it said . . ."

Dean swore, pulling the car over. There was a pause, and then he spoke, voice strong. "Something's messing with your head. It sounds like you're getting the worst bits of our past. So I'm only going to say this once. I don't hate you. Couldn't even if I tried. You're my brother, Matt."

Matt looked over at him, at the green eyes that were far too intense. He swallowed, and then let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"All right."

Dean nodded and pulled back out onto the highway.

Matt took the plunge. "You . . . you can call me Sam."

He didn't miss the way Dean's face lit up, a smile tugging his lips upward. Matt-Sam-relaxed, slouching in the Impala's leather.

* * *

**A/N:** And I finally get to call Sam his own name again! Yay!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** One chapter to go, guys!

* * *

Dean didn't let himself slip back into calling Sam "Matt." He came close a couple times, but always saved it with a cough or some random word that started with an "ma" sound. Macaroni had been used a couple times, and Dean was officially sick of those cheesy noodles.

But he was getting Sam back. Piece by painful piece. Each time Sam remembered something else, he was always tentatively asking Dean about it, asking for context.

Dean was just thankful that he could explain the worst of them away. To ease the hurt, he would tell Sam about the good times.

The late night movies, the best hunts, the prank wars. Anything that could lift Sam's expression into something lighter.

Dean wasn't able to get rid of Sam's scars, but at least he could get the kid to smile.

It had been a full month and a half when their dad called.

"He wants to meet. That okay?" Dean asked, throwing his jeans into his bag.

"There's a hunt, though." Sam wasn't looking at him.

"It can wait," Dean said impatiently.

"I could do it while you meet with him," Sam suggested. That got Dean's attention.

"What's your problem?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Dean just raised an eyebrow. "I . . . look, I know he's my father. But all the memories I have, it's just . . . I don't . . ."

Dean heard the unsaid words. He didn't trust their dad. "Look, I know you getting all the bad stuff from the demon, but Dad's kept us safe our whole lives. He's been fighting to kill that thing. Give him a chance, all right?"

Sam didn't look happy, but then again, that was rare anyway.

The car ride was mostly silent. Not that Dean minded. He liked his music, thank you very much, and didn't need to have conversation. But as he glanced over at Sam, he could see him slipping back into a mask . . . he was becoming Matt again.

Dean sighed. This would go well.

A typical John Winchester greeted them. A summary of his findings, which weren't much (though Dean wondered if he was keeping something back), a request for their information, and then a beer to relax.

Dean had missed their dad, and he loved the guy, but would it kill him to act like he cared a little? Dean, keeping his eye on Sam, noticed the guy studiously avoiding their dad, and speaking as little as possible.

"Dean, I need to go over some stuff with you. Sam, you can get some sleep in my room."

Dean winced. Their dad's voice was too demanding, and that always set Sam off, even before he lost his memories.

"Why, John? Something to hide?" Sam's voice was snide, but his face was blank.

There was anger in their dad's eyes. Dean glanced between the two of them, a terrible feeling of deja vu making him antsy.

"Son, I don't know if I can trust you. The demon could have access to your mind. And we can't afford a slip-up. Our last one got us in a hospital and gave you amnesia."

The logic was undeniable, and Dean saw Sam struggling with it. In the past Sam would've fought tooth and nail, despite the logic, but instead he finally muttered a low, "fine," and left.

* * *

"All right, what is it?"

John chanced a look at the door before turning to his eldest. "It's all about them. The children, the ones with the abilities."

"Well, we knew that," Dean reasoned. "I mean, it was the only thing that made sense."

"Yeah." John hesitated.

"Dad?"

His dad sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Crash here. We'll come up with a plan tomorrow."

John knew what he had to do, he just didn't want to do it. He stayed awake, watching as Dean drifted off to sleep. Dean wouldn't understand.

John nervously gripped the knife. He was about to murder his own son. John closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate on the fact that he-it-wasn't his son. Not anymore. It was the reason Mary had died. John had gleaned that much when the demon had been possessing him. Sam and the other children were the monsters.

John slipped out of the room, going over to the other motel room. He paused for a moment outside the door, eyes focusing wearily on the peeling paint.

He had to do this. John opened the door silently, slipping inside and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Sam . . . no, _it_, was asleep on John's bed.

John was a good hunter. On his best days, he was great.

But he underestimated his son.

One second he had his knife hovering above Sam's chest.

The next, and Sam's hand had intercepted his, ripping away the knife, twisting it around . . .

John felt the knife slide into him, and knew it was over. When had everything gone so wrong?

Sam's face was swimming in front of John's vision, but the horror was unmistakeable.

John wanted to apologize. Or something. What could he say? He had just tried to kill Sam. He just hoped Dean would be able to understand.

* * *

Matt-Sam, hadn't liked the situation. The way that John, his father, looked at him made him feel like the hunted, not the hunter he was.

Still. The guy had brought his motorcycle back in one piece, and for Dean's sake, Sam didn't make an issue of being sent to bed.

Months of sleeping alone meant that Sam was able to sense a foreign presence and react, even while he was asleep. He had become accustomed to Dean, but whoever had just slipped into the room was not Dean. Sam just reacted, his eyes snapping open to see the glint of a blade above him. He reached, twisted, stabbed.

Whatever had just tried to attack him sank to the floor with a grunt. Sam fumbled for the light.

He flicked it on and whirled on his attacker. And choked.

"John?" he asked in disbelief.

That was when the memories hit. Every single memory that included his father. Sam clutched his head, overwhelmed. A sharp pounding behind his eyes sent him reeling to the floor. Sam felt something warm dripping from his nose. He couldn't see his father's body anymore.

"Dad," Sam whispered brokenly.

Sam crawled over to the body. His dad's eyes were open in their accusation, but Sam couldn't make himself shut them. His eyes went to the blade sticking out of his dad's midsection. He then looked at his own hands. Covered in blood. His dad's blood.

He couldn't stop himself from throwing up. His dad had been about to kill him. And instead Sam had killed him. At the moment, Sam couldn't decide which would have been better.

And Dean . . . Sam swallowed.

He didn't have all his memories, but now, with every single one that included their dad, he could remember the way Dean had looked up to their dad, like he was a hero, his idol . . .

Dean would kill him. He may have even been in on it, seeing as he was the last one to talk with their dad. Sam shuddered. He could run. Hide. But should he? He was a murderer now. Maybe his dad had a good reason for wanting to kill him. Maybe . . .

Instinct overtook anything else. Sam left their father where he was, lying in his blood. He scrambled for his own possessions, and made his escape.

Sam didn't cover his trail. If Dean wanted to kill Sam, he wouldn't stop him.

* * *

Dean woke up to an empty room and felt rather lonely. Missing Sam already? Inwardly, he berated himself, but couldn't deny a significant amount of discomfort without his brother in the room. Oddly enough, his dad was nowhere to be seen as well.

He push back the bit of worry that was threatening to rise. They were probably just in the other room.

The motorcycle was gone. The implications of that . . . that their dad had left, _again_, didn't make Dean feel any better. Sighing, he knocked on the other motel door.

And received no answer.

Okay, that was bad. Dean went into a half-way panic mode, whipping out his lock-pick and opening the door.

He could smell it before he saw it. Blood. Dean ripped his way into the room, his eyes first landing on his father.

"Dad!" He dropped to his knees, fingers pressing against his dad's neck in a pointless search for a pulse. Dean drew back, realizing distantly that he was shaking, choking on a sob.

"Sammy?" he tried, his voice betraying him and cracking. The lack of response made him shake harder. Had this been an attack?

Sam wasn't in the room. Or the bathroom. Dean bewilderedly took stock of the room again, his eyes skipping past his father's body. And then he backtracked. The hilt of the knife . . . it was his dad's knife. And the motorcycle was gone. The pieces were clicking into place, and Dean didn't like them.

But he had to take care of the body.

It became a blur. Cleaning out the wound, wrapping his father in the bedclothes, covering up the bloodstains with the doormat.

The cell phone rang a few times before Sam picked up.

"Hello?"

"Sam, you better start talking now," Dean growled.

"Dean." Sam's voice was resigned. "I know."

"What is going on?" Dean hissed. "Answer me."

"I . . . I can't." A beep signaled Sam hanging up on him. Dean stared at his phone in disbelief before cursing loudly.

But Sam's phone was on. Dean waited until the coast was clear before carrying his dad's body to the back of the Impala while the laptop tracked the GPS in Sam's phone.

Twenty minutes later, Dean had put the town behind him, but couldn't stop trembling. Because his dad was dead, and his brother might've been the one to kill him.

And here Dean had just started relaxing around him.

Dean turned up the music, loud, forcing it to drown out his thoughts. Because he couldn't deal. Not with this. He just couldn't.

* * *

Sam hadn't gone far. He had just pulled off at the first rest stop he'd seen. The day was getting late, and the rest stop was empty to the point that it was a highly dodgy looking place.

His gun was laid out on the picnic table, with a silencer attached. Sam had decided to make it easy for Dean. Because he couldn't remember who he was, not fully, but he knew enough to know that he didn't want to be on the wrong side of the hunt. When Azazel had left hunting in his system, that had included the morals. He didn't want to live with the knowledge that he had killed his own father. Dean deserved revenge. No, justice. And Sam was at peace with that.

The growl of the Impala broke through Sam's reflections. Right. Dean. Sam swallowed, suddenly unsure if he was ready to die. Would it hurt?

Dean was walking over, and Sam noted distantly that he was hesitant, like he was on a hunt and didn't know what he was about to kill. Sam waited until he was close enough.

"Here." He picked up the gun, not missing the way Dean stiffened. Sam turned it around so he was holding it by the barrel. "Make it look like a suicide."

There was a brief pause, and then: "what?"

"Just wrap my hand around the gun afterwards," Sam explained calmly.

"Sam, you . . . man, just tell me what happened."

Sam closed his eyes. Of course he wanted an explanation first. Sam owed him that, but it didn't mean he really wanted to relive the experience.

"He must've told you."

"Told me what?" There was a hint of anger in Dean's voice, as Sam expected. It wouldn't be long before it got too far and Dean would finish this whole mess.

"That he was going to kill me." Sam realized how that sounded and winced. He couldn't make it sound like an accusation. "I woke up and there was a knife above me. I swear, I didn't know it was him. It's . . . it's best this way." He held out the gun out a little further. Dean didn't take it.

"He was going to kill you?" His voice was hollow.

Sam shrugged. "He must've found out something about the demon. I guess. I dunno, but he must've had a good reason. I mean . . . I have the memories, now. Not everything, just any memory including him. So I remember now, how he was a good hunter. He must've had a good reason."

Sam was babbling now, and knew it. He shut up. He just wanted this done.

Dean didn't say anything, just groaned.

"Do it, Dean. It's what he wanted." Sam put the gun on the table and slid it across to Dean.

Who hit it violently, ignoring every gun safety lesson that their dad had taught them, sending it spinning across the table. Sam was startled and stared at the other hunter in complete shock.

Dean's voice was gruff. "We need to burn Dad."

Sam shuddered. "No, I . . . I'm evil. I'm going evil. You have to kill me."

Dean stood. "Well, tough. You're my brother, Sam. And it wasn't your fault."

Something in Sam snapped, and he was shaking, and crying, and somehow Dean was next to him, and Sam didn't know what was going on anymore.

* * *

In some sick, twisted way, Dean had always been prepared to burn his dad's body. For a long time he had looked up to his dad as a superhero, the one who would never die. But as Dean had grown older, he had slowly started seeing things as they really were.

And so Dean had come up with the way things would go. He would burn his dad's body, Sam would burn his body, and the story would end there. Of course, his plan had not involved Sam being the one to kill their dad, so that was messed up.

But Dean wasn't freaking out. Much. Upset, yes. Hurting, yes. But he wasn't completely panicking, which was good, because Sam was panicking enough for the both of them.

He chanced another glance at his little brother. Sam was twisted up in some pretzel shape against the door, still shivering.

"Dude, you all right?"

"No."

Right. Dean swallowed, forcing himself to focus on the road. They would get through this. They would.

"Why won't you kill me?"

Dean grit his teeth. "Sam, we've been over this."

"I just . . . don't understand."

His brother always could sound like a lost child. Something in Dean hurt even more, and Dean just couldn't.

"Shut up, Sam."

If it was possible, Sam wilted further. The rest of the drive was silent, aside from Dean's music. The motel was even worse, as Sam seemed to be waiting for Dean to shoot him, or yell at him, or something.

All Dean wanted to do was forget everything.

"Wanna go out?"

Sam's eyes showed pure shock. "Out?"

"Yeah. Out. We could use some cash."

Wordlessly, Sam handed him a roll of cash. Dean raised an eyebrow but didn't press.

"I'm still going out."

"I'll wait here."

"Sam, you've got to stop . . ."

"Stop what? Blaming myself? Is that what you're going to say?" Sam's burst of anger set Dean on edge.

"Stop being an idiot, more like," he growled. "Whatever, man. Stay here and brood, for all the good it'll do you."

Dean stormed out, but hesitated at the door. Giving Sam an opening.

Sam took a step forward, and Dean jerked his head. A tentative, wry half-smile twisted Sam's lips, and Dean opened the door wider. Sam followed him.

They didn't need words, and Dean felt something click into place.

* * *

Somehow, they were still working. The weeks went by, and they were working together, killing monsters, and driving across the country. It felt good, and Sam felt uncomfortable with that. He wasn't supposed to feel anything but guilt . . . he had killed his father, after all.

"I'll take point."

Sam snapped back into focus. Right. The hunt. He nodded brusquely, trying to show Dean that he could trust him.

Sam had always liked vampire hunts. At least, he had while he was Matt. Sam gripped his machete tighter, a smile playing across his lips.

"What the-"

Sam peered over his brother's shoulder. "Huh."

The vampire nest was trashed, three headless bodies testifying to a hunter in the area.

"Well, guess we don't have to do this hunt," Dean said happily.

Sam gave a long-suffering sigh. "Man, I was looking forward to getting a nest."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You a glutton for punishment?"

Sam shook his head. "Vampires are just fun. A challenge, you know? Only one way to kill 'em, they're supernaturally strong . . . doesn't get better than that."

"I'm gonna be really interested to see what you're like when you get your memories back," Dean said with a grin. His green eyes focused back on Sam. "You haven't . . ."

"No," Sam muttered ruefully. After the surge of memories about his dad, any new memories had failed to come up.

"I wonder who did this." Dean toed one of the vamps, pushing the body aside.

"I just with it was us."

"Well, your lack of memories didn't take away the whining," Dean threw at him.

Sam shoved him lightly, marveling at how easy it was to be natural, despite everything that had happened. "Shut up. C'mon, let's go."

Dean was pushing his way into the motel room first, laughing and turning back, telling Sam something.

Sam saw a dark figure stepping out from the bathroom and only had enough time to act, pulling Dean backwards with a powerful yank, side-stepping so that Dean could pass him and so that Sam was facing the attacker.

The assailant was too fast. Sam turned and a fist met him, plowing into his jaw and then another slammed into his stomach.

"Sammy!"

A hand was gripping his hair, and a knife was at his throat. Sam dazedly tried to throw an elbow back, but the knife pressed.

"Don't even think about it."

"Who're you?" Sam slurred, distractedly feeling around his mouth with his tongue. Blood, but no missing teeth. At least there was that.

"That's not important. What is important is that you should be dead."

"Get away from him, Gordon," Dean growled, and Sam met his brother's eyes, startled by the pure fear in them.

"You know this guy?" Sam asked.

"Oh we've met." The voice from behind him was dark with intent, and Sam squinted at Dean, just wanting answers.

Dean whipped out his gun. "Let him go. Or I'll shoot you."

Gordon's laughter was confident. "Lighting's a little dim, Dean. Don't want to hit Sammy, do you?"

Sam felt a sudden surge of anger. "Only Dean gets to call me that," he told Gordon coldly. He made his move, jerking his head backwards to smash into where he hoped Gordon's face was and simultaneously grabbing the man's wrist. The blade nearly slit his throat, but Sam kept it from getting too deep.

It was a scramble, but Sam came out on top, rolling away from a dazed Gordon while Dean kept his gun trained on the man.

* * *

Dean was angry. Scratch that, he was _furious_. With all three syllables. Dean wasn't under kicking Gordon in the ribs while the guy was unconscious. They handcuffed the hunter and left him in the room, slipping outside.

"Spill, Dean. Who is that guy?"

Dean hated how angry Sam sounded. "Guy's going after the kids connected with Azazel. D-Dad and I, we stopped him from getting you, back when we found you after Bobby's."

Sam deflated. "Oh."

"What should we do with him?" Dean asked, if only curious for Sam's answer. They both knew that the easiest solution would be to kill him.

"Guy probably has an illegal weapon stash in his car, like we do," Sam said thoughtfully. "Think we could call in a tip?"

"That's risky, Sam," Dean responded, absently playing with his amulet. "But I can't think of a better option." He didn't voice how relieved he was that Sam hadn't mentioned killing Gordon.

They were efficient, sedating Gordon and leaving the guy in their motel room before calling the police on his car.

"How's your throat?" Dean was at the wheel, but was willing to pull over if it got too bad.

"It's fine. Just a scratch," Sam carelessly replied. Dean gripped the wheel tighter, unable to stop thinking of Gordon holding the knife at Sam's throat.

"Why . . . why did you do that?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"Do what, get myself caught? I didn't do it on purpose, dude."

Dean frowned. "No. The whole pulling me out of the way thing and being the one to get hurt."

Sam looked at him like he was stupid. "Cuz you're my brother," he said bluntly.

Dean couldn't help the half-smile. "Bitch," he grinned.

"What?"

Dean winced. "You're supposed to . . . never mind."

Sam seemed to realize he was missing another piece. Dean hated that kicked-puppy look.

"Hey Sammy, how do you feel about catching a movie?"

* * *

**A/N:** I know some of you are going to hate me for what I did with John, but I kinda needed him out of the picture. And hopefully you can kind of see where i'm coming from, what with in canon his last comment to Dean. It's an extreme of that. I guess? Please don't kill me. But it's heading into the final showdown here, and he was in the way. So yeah. He got the short end this time.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This is it! Thanks for sticking with me through this :)

* * *

He didn't have the memories, but he didn't need them. Sam realized that, now. They went from job to job, as a team, unstoppable.

He should've known everything was going too well.

One minute he was in a small diner, ordering dinner for the road while Dean relaxed in the car, and making sure to get pie. The next, he was being ripped away, a spasm of something painful through his chest, an influx of memories, and he was flat on his back, a grey sky above him.

Sam's head was aching, but he was finally whole. Sam closed his eyes, his thoughts overwhelming. His eyes snapped back open again, and he sat up.

"Dean?"

There was no response, and the emptiness surrounding him was frightening. Sam realized with a shiver that he was in the place in his dreams with the demon.

Sam heard yelling, and went to check out what was going on. He realized what was going on, then. The demon was collecting all of the psychic kids in one location.

Most of them were freaked. No idea what a demon was, and no clue what to do. Sam stepped up, took charge.

In some weird way, the demon taking his memories had prepared Sam for this. Prepared him to be alone. That didn't mean Sam wasn't missing his brother desperately. He wanted to tell him sorry, tell him he remembered everything, tell him sorry . . .

Sam was visited in his dreams by Azazel. The plan was sickening. They were in the Coliseum, Azazel was Caesar.

"Why did you take my memories?"

Azazel smiled. "To prepare you."

"Why give them back?"

Yellow-eyes looked at him in a weird kind of fond exasperation. "It's dark magic, taking someone's memories. Can't hold onto them forever, and I had other things to do. But don't worry about that now. C'mon, Sammy. You're my favorite. You're going to win this."

Things began spiraling out of control. Sam didn't kill anyone himself, but two girls and one of the guys were taken out before Sam could do anything. He was left facing off the remaining.

"Jake, we don't have to do this," Sam pleaded.

"It's got to be this way, or he'll kill us both," Jake insisted. Sam watched him warily.

"We can fight him. Together. And my brother, he can help. We just have to get out of here. Look." Sam dropped his knife, looking expectantly at the other.

Jake dropped his crowbar reluctantly, and Sam relaxed.

Jake took advantage of that. The blow was painful-Jake had super-strength, after all. But Sam wasn't a hunter for nothing. He fought viciously, finally taking Jake out with a blow to the head.

Matt would've finished the guy off. Sam . . . Sam couldn't.

"It's lucky the demon gave me my memories back, buddy," Sam muttered. He used the arm that Jake hadn't dislocated to drag him over to one of the porches, tying him up with the leftover rope from one of the girls's death by hanging.

He made it halfway out of the town before Azazel showed up.

"You have to finish it, Sam."

"No can do," Sam grunted. He doggedly continued walking, clutching his bad arm. From the buzzing in his head, he was going to pass out soon.

"Maybe I can convince you."

Sam had no warning before he was once more yanked into somewhere foreign. Except for it wasn't. He was in his nursery as a baby, and being fed blood from Azazel himself.

"So I'm part demon," he said hollowly.

"Very good, Sammy. See, you were made for this."

Sam watched, pained, as his mother rushed into the nursery. His mother recognized the demon, and Sam looked at Azazel questioningly.

The demon's smile was feral. "She and I made a little deal," he grinned.

The betrayal bit a little deeper than Sam liked. "For whom?" he asked.

"Your dad."

The hurt eased slightly. Sam turned to Azazel. "It was a nice try. But if you think I'll ever accept my so-called destiny, then you've got another think coming."

Azazel looked furious, but shrugged. "Fine. I've already got another soldier. Guess I'll just use him for now. I'll see you around, Sammy."

Sam blinked, and he was on his back, staring at a blue sky again.

"Sammy!"

Sam allowed himself to finally relax. "Dean," he murmured before passing out.

* * *

Dean was running on fumes, desperate and helpless. All he could think was "not again, please."

Bobby had figured out demonic signs surrounding Wyoming, so Dean had headed there, reaching the border.

When Sam appeared on the ground next to the Impala, Dean sent his silent thanks to whoever sent him there, jumping out of the car desperately.

"Sammy!"

Sam's head lolled towards him, and Dean heard him whisper his name before his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Hey. Hey, Sam. Wake up, man. Wake up."

It took a couple tries, but finally the hazel eyes blinked up at him.

"Ow."

"Sammy, what happened?" Dean reached under Sam's arms in an attempt to lift him up, but Sam yelped.

"Arm. Dislocated," he grunted.

"Sorry, man." Dean carefully pushed him into a sitting position, taking in the painful looking bruises on Sam's face and the limp way his arm was held. Judging by his pained breaths, probably a couple broken ribs to boot. "All right, ready?"

It was sad, that it wasn't a new situation for them, Dean thought as he popped Sam's arm back into place.

He helped Sam lean into a slumped over position against to the Impala. He knelt in front of him, examining him worriedly. "Sorry," Dean apologized again.

Sam groaned. "Shut up, jerk."

Dean sighed, and then reassessed Sam's statement. "Sammy?"

"In the flesh. And the mind."

Sam's smile was huge. Dean hadn't seen him looking so happy since . . . well, since a long time. He very nearly socked Sam in the arm before remembering the dislocation.

"You moron," he laughed, settling for messing Sam's hair up.

Sam smiled for a moment more before the smile slowly slid from his face. "Dean, big stuff is going down."

"No kidding. Where did you go?" Dean asked.

Sam sighed. "The yellow-eyed demon. It was his showdown for the psychic freaks. Last one alive wins."

Dean shuddered. Sam could've died and he'd've never known. "So you won?" he asked, relieved.

"Sort of." Sam's voice was too weak, and Dean looked at him worriedly. "It came down to two of us, me and a guy named Jake, and I knocked Jake out, but left him tied up. Azazel wasn't happy about that . . . For some reason he let me come back here."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. "We should get you to a motel," he said, deftly changing the subject. "Or a hospital."

Sam's head shook slowly. "No. Something big is going down, and we need to figure out when and where. Just . . . give me a few."

"Sammy, you're hurt."

"A bit." A pained expression ghosted across Sam's face. "I'm sorry, Dean. For not remembering, before. The way I treated you . . . I'm just sorry."

"Don't say that, Sam. You've got nothing to be sorry for. I'm just glad you're back."

Sam smiled. "Me too."

* * *

Something big was at stake, and Sam couldn't see what it was. Dean told him about the signs in Wyoming, and together they figured out about Samuel Colt's enormous devil's trap.

Dean was driving, Sam was examining the map, and then the vision hit.

It played out with a strange vagueness, unlike the previous ones. There was a graveyard, and Jake was shooting at them. Sam watched as Dean caught a bullet in the leg. And then there was a weird flash, and the vision stopped there. Sam came back to himself with a pained gasp to find the Impala pulled over and Dean frantic.

"Vision," Sam choked out. "Graveyard."

"What's there?" Dean asked, gunning the engine, though still keeping an eye on Sam.

"Jake. He was there, he was shooting, and . . . I . . ." Sam swallowed.

"Sam?" Dean prompted.

"I don't know. I don't know why, the vision was really unclear," he sighed. "We should get back-up for this one."

Dean pressed his lips together tightly before nodding. "I'll give Bobby a call. He'll meet us there."

"Dean, I . . . I saw you get shot."

As Sam watched Dean's face, he saw a nearly imperceptible widening of his eyes before they narrowed. "I'm not sitting this one out, Sam."

"I know, it's just . . . be careful, okay? It was in the leg, but I'd prefer no bullets."

The corners of Dean's eyes wrinkled as his brother smiled. "You got it, Sammy."

Pieces were falling into place. Sam gripped his gun tightly, getting out of the car unsteadily. He could feel Dean's gaze on him, and fought to stay upright. He needed to be strong.

The graveyard was empty, as graveyards tended to be. No sign of Jake.

"Sammy, you're sure this is the right one?"

"It's in the middle of the devil's trap," Sam responded tersely. "It's the only one that makes sense."

Dean didn't look happy, but nodded in agreement anyway. "Bobby will be here any minute," he commented.

Sam heard the click of a gun too late, and whirled to find his vision coming true. Jake shot, catching Dean in the leg. Sam raised his own gun but hesitated.

It was an instant too long, and a pain exploded in his chest. Dazedly, Sam stared down at the blood blossoming above his heart.

"Dean," he mumbled, and then he was falling, and there was blackness.

* * *

When the bullet had hit his leg, Dean had just groaned with pain and the fulfillment of Sam's vision.

When a bullet hit Sam, his world fell apart.

Dean reacted the way he always had. Screaming Sam's name, crawling over to his brother.

But he was too late (always too late) and Sam was already dead.

"Sammy." Dean pulled Sam close, his brother's skin already cool compared to his own.

"I just want the Colt."

The kid's voice was shaky, and a very very small part of Dean felt pity for him. Probably hadn't wanted to kill anyone. Probably was being used by Azazel.

Probably had no weight, not now. Dean pulled Sam's gun out of Sam's unresponsive hand, pointing it at Jake.

"Sorry," he said hollowly. Jake's reactions were too slow, and Dean killed him before looking back down at Sam. _Sammy_. He couldn't be dead. Not after everything, everything that had happened.

The sound of a vehicle approaching didn't make Dean raise his head. Bobby's voice didn't either. Everything became a blur. With Bobby's help, Sam was in the backseat, and then Dean was pulling out the Colt and getting in the driver's seat. Bobby was protesting, but Dean ignored him.

He was finishing this.

The instant the Impala crossed the lines of the devil's trap, Yellow-eyes was there.

Dean kept the gun out of sight as he exited the car.

"Well, I don't know much of what went on in there, but it wasn't as planned. So how about you and I-" Yellow-eyes began.

"Shut up."

"So. Little brother didn't make it out alive. You know, we could make a deal . . ."

Dean raised the Colt and shot Azazel between the eyes. He would make a deal, just not with him.

Azazel was dead, Dean had a bullet hole in his leg, and Sam was dead. Something was going to change, and it was going to be the latter.

It didn't take long for Dean to find a crossroads and go through the normal steps for summoning a demon.

"Dean Winchester. Well isn't this . . . very predictable."

"Give him back."

"Straight to business, then." The demon's grin was wide. "You want little Sammy back?"

"Yes." Dean glanced at the Impala. "Just give him back."

"So, a trade, then? Him for you?"

"That's right."

"I'll give you a year."

Dean swallowed. "Not ten?"

Her eyes flashed black. "One year. That's it, kid. Try and wiggle your way out, and Sammy kicks it."

Dean closed his own eyes. "Deal." He kissed the demon, tasting sulphur.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes. _He_ _opened his eyes_. That wasn't supposed to happen when he was dead.

And dead people didn't wake up on their backs in the Impala.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. There was no reply, and Sam tried to sit up, but there was a sharp pain that started in his chest and travelled through his body rapidly. Sam groaned, pulling at the back of the front seat.

Nothing made sense. Would the Impala be in heaven? (or hell, his mind supplied.)

"Sammy?"

Right. Dean. So everything was somehow all right. Sam kicked at the door ineffectually, suddenly feeling trapped.

"Dean?"

The door was yanked open, and Dean was there.

"Sam, you're . . . you're okay."

Sam blinked at him. "Is this heaven?"

Dean's laugh turned into a sob, and Sam found himself being pulled out of the Impala into a bone-crushing hug.

"Ouch, Dean. Dean, busted ribs."

"Sorry."

Sam had never heard Dean sounding so broken before. "Dean, what happened?"

Dean wouldn't meet his eyes. "Jake, uh . . . "

"Shot me," Sam finished softly. "I remember up to that."

"I took him out. Yellow-eyes showed up after we left the devil's trap, and I shot him."

Sam looked at his brother in amazement. "Azazel? He's dead?"

"Yeah, man. I got him."

"Whoa." Sam didn't know what to think about that. He narrowed his eyes at Dean. "Wait. How am I alive?"

"I . . . I made a deal."

Sam couldn't help his sharp intake of breath, but it made Dean wince anyway. "What?" he hissed.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. But I couldn't . . . I couldn't let you die."

Sam closed his eyes. "How long?" he asked softly.

"A year."

It took Sam a couple deep breaths to orient himself. "A year to get you out of it. All right."

"No getting out of the deal, Sam. Part of the terms."

"I'm gonna do it."

"Sam . . ."

"No! I don't care. I just . . . I just got you back. I just got all my memories back." Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulder as his brother was about to turn away. "I'm not losing you."

"Then promise me I won't lose you again," Dean whispered.

Sam offered his brother a pained smile. "I'll try." He paused. "Jerk." Dean didn't respond, but Sam saw the glint of relief and love in his eyes. And Sam . . . Sam had a job to do. "We've got work to do," he murmured.

"We always have work to do," Dean muttered, half-grumbling, half-serious.

"Well . . . how about a nap first, and then work?" Sam offered. The startled grin he got from Dean made everything seem small in comparison. Amnesia, Dad's death, Azazel . . . they beat them all before. And they could beat this too.

"C'mon, little brother. Let's get out of here."

"Right behind you."

* * *

**A/N:** Whew! It's done! I do realize that it's a bit short (especially seeing how it's practically an AU of Season 2), so sorry for that, but what with school and all, I didn't have time to go in depth with this story. Wish I did, but if wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak.

Let me know what you thought! Reviews are loved :)


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